


Something Better to Think About

by commanderlurker (honeybee592)



Series: OTP: You're the boss [10]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, War Table Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 12:05:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12911568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybee592/pseuds/commanderlurker
Summary: Grace gets through a boring war table meeting by remembering just what happened on that very war table the previous night.





	Something Better to Think About

**Author's Note:**

> First posted on tumblr ages ago. Posting here so it's officially part of Grace's canon.

Maker, would he stop playing with that marker? Grace had enough trouble as it was concentrating on the day’s meeting without Cullen rolling his finger and thumb over the map marker on the table. She supposed that was the point–-not being able to concentrate. That’s what Bull had said.  _You worry too much when you’re in here. Let me give you something better to think about when you’re stuck in this room_.

Grace shifted her weight from foot to foot, frowning as she thought about what Bull had given her. He’d used that piece too–a sword with a fist for a pommel–right on her unmentionables. She flushed hot. Did he clean the table afterwards? She certainly hoped so. Otherwise Cullen would be touching… she shuddered, blushing. The thought thrilled her, actually, that she’d sat on this table just last night, her naked butt squashing the Frostbacks.

“Your Grace, are you okay?”

Grace suppressed her smile and looked up. Three pairs of eyes on her, suspicious, confused, concerned. At least Cullen had stopped touching the marker. Oh but now his hand rested on the pommel of his own sword. That just made her think of Bull’s thingie and the way he’d fondled himself while standing right where Cullen was now… She coughed into her hand, heat no longer limited to her face.

“I’m fine.” She spoke clearly, didn’t squeak.

Josephine tapped her board. “Do you have any objections to me sending a delegation to meet with Reverend Mother Anastasia?”

Oh, right. The delegation. That’s what they’d been talking about. She shook her head.

“Very well.” Josephine picked up one of the pawns from the box beside the map and placed it ever so carefully over Val Royeaux.

A shiver tingled down Grace’s spine. She shouldn’t be thinking like this but she couldn’t help it. Last night her thigh had rested over the Free Marches. Bull had sat one of those pieces on her with the same exacting care that Josephine had just showed. Then he’d picked up another–a bronze raven of Leliana’s, and placed it on her other thigh. Her bellybutton became a lake high up in the Frostbacks.  _Better send some troops to make sure there’s no demons_. And Bull had dragged one of Cullen’s pawns along her thigh, through the hair between her legs. But it got stuck, snagged.  _Uh oh. Looks like Cullen’s boys have gotten themselves lost in the forest. I’d better rescue them._  And he’d dipped down, breath all warm and lips all moist as he worked the piece free.

“A contingent of troops have split off from the party at Crestwood and will continue to the Storm Coast caves.” Cullen picked up the piece Grace had been staring at and slid it across the map, not far, but far enough for her to remember the glide of the cool, smooth metal across her belly.

She pursed her lips, squeezed her legs together to alleviate the building pleasure. The advisors melted into one, low, monotonous voice while Grace stared at the table. At the centre, the sword marking Haven had been well and truly stuck fast, stabbed in place in a fit of anger soon after arriving at Skyhold. The map represented not only Orlais and Ferelden, but also Corypheus’ strangle-hold on Thedas. Not that Grace cared about that right now. Not when  she spotted the edge of the table she’d gripped as Bull licked and fingered and teased. She peered closer, saw where her fingernails had scratched the wood. Maker, would anyone notice? She grew hotter, clenching her fists and swallowing down the cry that came with the memory.

“Inquisitor, Grace?” Josephine looked ever so concerned. “Are you sure you shouldn’t see a healer? You appear to be running a fever.”

“Yes, it wouldn’t do for the Inquisitor to fall sick, now, would it.” Leliana did not sound concerned.

Grace ignored her. She’d concentrate this time. She really would. People  _depended_ on her. But then she noticed the feather sticking out of an empty bottle and all thoughts of delegations and scouting missions well and truly disappeared out the window.


End file.
